I love the evenings, passionless and fair, I love the evens,
Whether old manor-fronts their ray with golden fulgence leavens,
In numerous leafage bosomed close;
Whether the mist in reefs of fire extend its reaches sheer,
Or a hundred sunbeams splinter in an azure atmosphere
On cloudy archipelagos.

Oh, gaze ye on the firmament! a hundred clouds in motion,
Up-piled in the immense sublime beneath the winds' commotion,
Their unimagined shapes accord:
Under their waves at intervals flame a pale levin through,
As if some giant of the air amid the vapors drew
A sudden elemental sword.

The sun at bay with splendid thrusts still keeps the sullen fold;
And momently at distance sets, as a cupola of gold,
The thatched roof of a cot a-glance;
Or on the blurred horizon joins his battle with the haze;
Or pools the blooming fields about with inter-isolate blaze,
Great moveless meres of radiance.

Then mark you how there hangs athwart the firmament's swept track,
Yonder a mighty crocodile with vast irradiant back,
A triple row of pointed teeth?
Under its burnished belly slips a ray of eventide,
The flickerings of a hundred glowing clouds in tenebrous side
With scales of golden mail ensheathe.

Then mounts a palace, then the air vibrates--the vision flees.
Confounded to its base, the fearful cloudy edifice
Ruins immense in mounded wrack;
Afar the fragments strew the sky, and each envermeiled cone
Hangeth, peak downward, overhead, like mountains overthrown
When the earthquake heaves its hugy back.

These vapors, with their leaden, golden, iron, bronzèd glows,
Where the hurricane, the waterspout, thunder, and hell repose,
Muttering hoarse dreams of destined harms,--
'Tis God who hangs their multitude amid the skiey deep,
As a warrior that suspendeth from the roof-tree of his keep
His dreadful and resounding arms!

All vanishes! The Sun, from topmost heaven precipitated,
Like a globe of iron which is tossed back fiery red
Into the furnace stirred to fume,
Shocking the cloudy surges, plashed from its impetuous ire,
Even to the zenith spattereth in a flecking scud of fire
The vaporous and inflamèd spaume.

O contemplate the heavens! Whenas the vein-drawn day dies pale,
In every season, every place, gaze through their every veil?
With love that has not speech for need!
Beneath their solemn beauty is a mystery infinite:
If winter hue them like a pall, or if the summer night
Fantasy them starre brede.

what did it take for me to miss those days?
crawling breathless,
stomach nails for breakfast, ventricles of rust,
pounding on my ribs with any upright task
from soaking bed delirium,
corroded mind and eyeballs
tortured falun dafa tears
stinging on the walls a glowing red,
my branching veins encasing me in flaming
paths of mystery: to live or die, to try or fail
at simple efforts
--never gone without, since infanthood--
to stand itself a tissue horror
bathing in the needles of another lifeform's hold on me,
that spiral nesting multitasker
legions in the joints,
invading forces claiming spinal tower-riches
as if my thoughts will be my last,
originary flickerings of self, sacked and razed,
the burning out of novelty for bottom emptiness
and only sympathies malinger there--
yet vaster frame invisible to healthy eye emerged:
a sea, empathic with my prior paths from health diverged:
adrenal waves and dolphin plays of other air ensouled i purge
with cascade urges tension mixing universal breath
of statements, fears and wry coercings not to think of death
or tempting near the abolition of a system *****
for all the benison it's bound to store for years
of hiding blind and uttering the shield-word
of our sly, superficial, group-stock lies,
to have us screaming at each other out of only kneejerk love
a mask of fodder from our young dogmatic wanderings
they burn and burn and choke like spirochetes themselves
while shoving under family rugs the truth

cicada shells clung eerily against the burls and branches
of a monumental tree itself a deathly symbol bare of green
like ornaments of rhythm upsurge birthing into death digest
the exoskeletal remains, under finger crunched as
up the bark i climbed
to view what death had taken value on for me, and balanced
up atop the hill of faded names i yearned the meanings of,
and in the clouds
a part revealed
a sunny mist,
to paint me colorful again--
and in that mood a hail began to tick on forest floor:
the brittle dead a singing whisper flaking brown
on brown, on earthy brown to gather white within the paper nooks of leafy drums

how whimsically to service death
anon anon for now they're always lying there
across the road atop the grave hill,
from other species hunted here
but this, that time it was a carved skull
hacked or sawed but yards from peaceful temple yard
another, cleaner omen skull had led me there,
ochre red with emerald mold
the cranial pale divided stop and go
and led me wondering within the stream
to notice other signs i half-expected mystically:
surreal blood abundantly with vulture feathers carpeting the scene:
a stag with missing brain, missing hind and organs
chosen how, i'd never know
--i saw the arrow though, a barb of certainty--
and old fur, gray and white, a timely passing then,
to make of gore a sacred right,
and in hale ignorance i prayed like only atheists can pray
with self-disclaiming smirk but
humble authenticity of unknown forces
biding in the impulse-meaning-gathering of earth,
now memory to glean and hold to live in me

Alabaster Archipelagos
Benevolent Beauty Beaming
Constructive Contradictive Creative Contemplations
Dante's Darling Dances Deliberating Denominatives
Effervescent Escapisms Endearingly Emerge Elusive Edens  
Fantastic Flamboyant ******* Flamed Fabulous Fiery Flickerings
Gorgeous Garden Gim'memores Gaudied Garnishing Gasps
Heavenly Hues Humming Heart's Harmonies
Immortaly Impregnated Inspired Ideals
Jessamin Jargon Jacuzzi Jams
Know-how Knacking Knurls
Light-spirited Lovers
Merge Magnificent
Naked Nocturno Nights
Omnipresent Ousia Over Odeons
Palpitations Perfect Peaks Pi Paws
Quintessential Quality Quarrels Question Quarks Quietness
Rododendron's Richameters Rescued Raw Reeling Ruby Realms
Sentient Syllabic Sapfo's Splendidly Spirited Semantics
Turning Turner's Timeless Timeless Twinklings
Unified Undulatory Unsolved Unicorns
Velvety Venice Voyages
Wanton Wantings
Xsylophone Xsantiphas
Yearnin' Yuki's Yen
Zed's Zealous Zen-it-hall Zeppelins

Flickerings of distant memories flutter
past my psyche into nothing.
Through an astral plain I drift.
Over nonexistent lands
my feet carry me, floating.

She slinks away, the black cat, agile—
“The dreamscape is a fragile
thing,” she said. I'm following,
changing, borrowing her shape but then
the story fades, too vague
and just like that
it's vanished.

Incomprehensible images wander
as clouds through skies of colours unseen.
I'm lost in an ocean of questions
that pierce my ears as hooks through the fish's mouth
but I cannot ask,
for a white hot zipper seals my lips.
A voice whispers, breath damp in my ear:
“Watch, listen...”

The ground opens beneath me
and I plummet.
Feeling cold against my skin
I'm naked, vulnerable, fearful.
This pit must be bottomless but
I've landed, unscathed.
Bathed in grasses soft as silk
smelling of life and freedom
I'm enveloped in relief, protection.

My body moves, uncontrollable
as reeds in a river
yet still guided by a wind with no origin
playing melodies of beauty immense and painful.

Wonder fills me as the song ends,
ominous and heavy the silence looms.
Flowers die and the grasses wither
as I'm pulled away,
reluctant.

Higher, higher I'm lifted
into lucidity
past ladders and staircases, tunnels and gateways
closing before my eyes
as nearer draws the moment I dread more than anything.
Despite my persistence,
I'm solid again.
I'm myself, mundane and mourning:
awake.

~

If you were mine…



If you were mine…our footsteps would

dance on moonlit verandas
while candle lit flickerings enticed my smiled reflections
with your arms tightly around me

symphonies would play to the rhythm of your charm
as we swayed in the essence of forever
on cloud soft concertos of affection’s melodic whispers

eternal echoes would sing in harmony to your eyes,
hauntingly dark invitations to my endless destination,
soothing reflections comforting weathered longings

If you were mine…satin beaches would

eclipse tan line passions
beneath glistening waves of aquamarine salt water bliss
gently caressing the depth of our love

palm leaf shadows of cooling design would weave embracing patterns
of ocean fed breezes tickling our naked forms
as sea foam fingers probe pearl smooth valleys

sunset tides would tease beneath star orchid heavens
blooming of every wished for fantasy…
lasting happily ever after upon sandcastles dreams


If you were mine…my life would

be a mosaic of delirious euphoric visions
in constant creative motion delivering sincerely
every ounce of joy your heart could desire

painted in the sweet essence of everything that is your spirit
vibrant in wonders of fragrant poetic offerings
versed in accordance with your every need

believing that happiness can begin with a smile,
walk along endless streams of worshiped blessings,
remaining satisfied and forevermore yours

If you were mine…oh, if you were mine

Electricity is out
Shut down by nature’s power
Ice’s storm break danced till dawn
Twisting branch, limb and tree trunk onto lawn
16 nights of darkness
16 days of frost
16 days without power
Yet not all is lost
Relaxation’s comfort found in front of fireplace
Sun’s light deferred, soaked up in greener days
Hearth felt spiritual warming in fire brewed cup of simplicity
Candlelight flickerings augment the serendipity
16 days without power and not a thought of TV
16 nights of quiet and stillness
Strangely appealing to me

If you were mine…


If you were mine…our footsteps would

dance on moonlit verandas
while candle lit flickerings enticed my smiled reflections
with your arms tightly around me

symphonies would play to the rhythm of your charm
as we swayed in the essence of forever
on cloud soft concertos of affection’s melodic whispers

eternal echoes would sing in harmony to your eyes,
hauntingly dark invitations to my endless destination,
soothing reflections comforting weathered longings

If you were mine…satin beaches would

eclipse tan line passions
beneath glistening waves of aquamarine salt water bliss
gently caressing the depth of our love

palm leaf shadows of cooling design would weave embracing patterns
of ocean fed breezes tickling our naked forms
as sea foam fingers probe pearl smooth valleys

sunset tides would tease beneath star orchid heavens
blooming of every wished for fantasy…
lasting happily ever after upon sandcastles dreams


If you were mine…my life would

be a mosaic of delirious euphoric visions
in constant creative motion delivering sincerely
every ounce of joy your heart could desire

painted in the sweet essence of everything that is your spirit
vibrant in wonders of fragrant poetic offerings
versed in accordance with your every need

believing that happiness can begin with a smile,
walk along endless streams of worshiped blessings,
remaining satisfied and forevermore yours

If you were mine…oh, if you were mine

my
fascination
is
today
with
the
not
quite
seen
those
flickerings
in
the
periphery
visual
line
the
ye­t
to
be
thought
half
formed
nebulous
inklings
mind
wrinklings
the
words
balancing
precariously
on
the
tip
of
the
to­ngue
the
song
of
joy
or
sorrow
yet
unsung
the
dance
step
stagnati­ng
in
the
toe-tap
the
poem
waiting
to
be
found
in
the
shadow
of
t­he
corner
of
almost
and
rhyme
these
are
the
things
that
fascinate­
that
whittle
and
while
away
at
my
precious
time

~

Sometimes I don’t say it
as eloquently as I should

Words run from me
disappearing over mountain tops

In the last phrases of my day
when moon light seeps in

Through opaque glass
and curtains of lace promises

I clutch tightly my pillow
wishing it were you

Hoping that tonight’s dream
will give me a hint

Like some painted message
on marshmallow clouds

Drawing lingering lines
in star to star whispers

Chasing firefly flickerings
with a mayonnaise jar

Trying to capture your heart
in a twilight whimsy

Within the verses of a poem
written on a breeze

Floating across
midnight skies of woven stanzas

Eloquently or not…
*of my love for you

And now a change of scenery;
the night has truly fallen
now
and departing from
our Baltic Galway
“into the woods”
we can greet the callings
of some shenanigans
luring and
lurking there
to plant or extract ideas
and trespassings
of
our
flickerings.
Have a waiting room
in car rides,
help yourself

And earlier,
barefoot through
sand poured with pine needles
and we walk
nevertheless.
Bare feet open
the way to puddles
of warm diamonds
called sky water
now with pungent flowers
hitting senses like ambrosia,
the way to high embracing
of the trees whilst climbing,
to mud healing,
to impassive conquering
of any earth we
encounter,
to comprehension,
and to the respect
of all that came
and left through
these lands
in the span
of
all
the history.

Stronger and stronger,
closest to the truest
an affection and
calling
belonging
from the trees.
As such I cup one all,
I never want to let go,
there comes a commotion,
like entering the hidden crowd
from which you’ve always known
you truly come from,
like creatures
of a forest looking
in the silence too deep
at a village of
another world.
At first I thought from scientists
that plants don’t like being
touched,
yet as someone
quite new told me:
“Would you
be able to
find such
comprehension, love
and moving
appurtenance if they
didn’t feel exactly
the same towards
You?

Recent forest
walks when I
free my spirit too to
let it approach me
make me feel that
such great intimate
pride of an archer
or
vagabond
bound with it all in
their own story
and perception, and
even a half an hour walk
makes itself a wonder of
a few pages of a
Robin-Hood-like
book
in my presence
walking.

Also, the same
in river’s sole fine
line of freeze,
who holds dear
the mute,
those
who feign not
appurtenance
of this
world.

Let us stop,
we have arrived
already at our shack
and there’s our safe
space that
holds a place
for us to sleep
away.

Another
unconscious lesson
in God’s library,

another
Sun
to
come.

Sound is a torchlight passed
Along the eardrum to quiver in silhouettes,
Shadow puppets of the mind.  

Stars are the torchlit soundways to the divine,
With flickerings too far to be heard
Or too much shadow-disturbed to know as sign.

Seated at the back and black corner of a bar, small flickerings of red glass-light contain themselves within translucent shells of volcano candles. They are too passive a gang on dark tables contemplating my boredom. They serve our temporary needs to visualize at night.so many of us take their quiet radiance for granted. I wonder about my evenings and the continual secrecy that adorns them. I can only guess that they might match other people’s time spent wishing privately.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                      A Disembodied Hand Doomscrolling
                       on the Wall of Tia Maria’s Barbecue

                                       - not Daniel 5

Tiffany was treatin’ the girls to barbecue
The merry ol’ girls from her bowling league
(Dazzling team colors in pink and blue)
She had made herself captain through cruel intrigue

When suddenly a disembodied hand
Appeared with a smartphone by the restroom door
And keyed strange lines that in flickerings scanned:
“You’ll be sacked this evening - your team’s 0 to 4”

That very night Tiffany’s custom ball was taken
And she cried in her trailer, her heart a-breakin’

The drought has made July linger.  The air smells of sewer *****, sweetgum, sassafras, fescue, concrete and asphalt.  

On this long summer day when the light and heat decide to linger— parents let their children play well into the night on the community’s green.  

Their laughter and the croaking of frogs in the rention pond, just beyond, overgrown with cattails,
has my dog thinking the sound of fireworks and wanting to go back home.  I see the flickerings of the early late night news peeping through the half-drawn curtains as we head back.  

I imagine the children dreaming dream after dream in the hot mist of sleep after the last door has shut.


In that moment I see the first lines of my new poem, full  of that living hurting nostalgia that everyone likes to star and comment on— a poem, that I imagine, might be found after my death by my executor.  It would be one of those critically disdained viral odes charming and popular enough to be embroidered on sofa pillows that comfort the aching backside of old widows. A poem with a hint of despair but not written in despair.   One that knows the substance of July summer nights.